I'll Take You Home
by sarapals with past50
Summary: When "Bloodlines" ended, Grissom was holding Sara's hand. Here is a short story on what happened next-our view anyway! All fluff, all GSR.
1. Chapter 1

_We own nothing, just having fun writing what we didn't see on screen! This one is a short story, following "Bloodlines" at the end of season 4-the season of "Butterflied" and "Turn of the Screw". Enjoy, leave a review, and new chapters follow quickly!_

**I'll Take You Home Chapter 1**

Humiliation—rendered Sara Sidle silent, defined her face with the mortification of having her supervisor called. She wanted to crawl into a dark hole; she wanted to vanish from the seat, disappear, even die, but none of that was going to happen. Only will power and the pain of biting her lip kept the potential flood of tears from covering her face. Grissom would have to pick her up, acknowledge that one of his team had been driving under the influence, after she had slowly rolled through a stop sign, after she had downed three beers and a vodka tonic. She dropped her head, pinched her nose to staunch her tears and waited.

She concentrated so intensely on preventing tears she did not hear foot steps until Grissom was beside her, taking her hand.

"I'll take you home," he said as his hand took hers, his fingers laced between her fingers as he squeezed, gently, reassuring, before he stood. As easily as he had taken her hand, the same hand moved around her waist as they walked out.

"We'll get your car later," he said, opening the vehicle door for her.

They drove in silence; Sara kept biting her lip, unable to find a way to explain, unwilling to trust her voice.

"Are you hungry?"

She shook her head.

"When did you eat?"

His question required an answer, but she shook her head again, hoping he would get the message and stop talking.

"Have you eaten today?"

Grissom kept his voice calm but the silence was driving him to distraction—Sara, who could out-talk anyone in the lab—had not said one word since he had arrived, and now, she would not respond to a simple question.

With the lights from the street he could see her arms tightly wrapped around her body, trying to close out every thing around her. He meant to take her home, to her apartment, but on impulse, he turned, deciding his place would be better. It was clean and food was in the refrigerator.

…Sara realized they were no longer moving when Grissom closed his door. Confusion added to her humiliation when he opened her door and held out his hand.

"We're going to eat," he explained with a nod toward the building. "I have food."

Sara wanted to cry; now he was treating her like a hungry stray dog. "I'll be fine," she managed to croak out. "Just—just—home…"

He kept the door open, reached for her hand, saying "We are going to eat. It's good—you'll like it." He almost had to pull her from the seat, but she did come with him. Within minutes he had poured two glasses of cold juice, placed one in her hand, turned on the oven, and disappeared.

Sara drank—swallowed the entire glass in two gulps—and sat on one of the two bar stools. She knew a lecture was coming—drinking and driving was probably the number one "no" rule of the lab. They all did it, but if one thought another had too much, it was always a cab ride home. Tonight, breaking the "never drink alone" rule, she had left Nick for the last drink and, angry at herself for doing so, she had swallowed the liquid almost as fast as she drank the juice. Ten minutes later, she was pulled over.

Alone in Grissom's kitchen, she swirled her now empty glass in circles and inspected the area. Cleaner than she thought it would be; no signs of any food preparation, but he had turned on the oven. His kitchen looked like a very clean lab—nothing decorative, only a few items on the countertops—which did not look used—and walls covered with framed insects of all kinds. Not much had changed since the last time she had visited it.

…Grissom had brought her into his house again; now uncertainty settled on him as he thought about what to do next. The last time they had spent significant time together had been when the roller coaster left its track; he grinned as he remembered the enjoyable hours they had spent during the case and afterwards. He sighed, remembering his determination to remain Sara's friend instead of the lover she desired him to be.

A quick check of the bed showed him it was freshly made, his clothes put away; the bathroom sparkled, thanks to his devoted housekeeper. She had also prepared the food in his refrigerator. Opening several drawers, he pulled out a clean tee shirt, a new pair of boxers still in the package, a sweat shirt, and fleece pants with a drawstring at the waist band. He knew the clothes would not fit, but would work. He placed everything in the bathroom, added a few other items, and was back in the kitchen when the preheating oven signaled it was heated.

Sara had remained where he left her, empty glass in front of her and sitting now, with her head resting on her hands.

"Okay," he sighed. "Oven is heated—our food needs about fifteen minutes to warm." He leaned against the counter next to Sara. She continued avoiding his eyes. He hated this kind of thing, he thought. "Sara." She turned to look at him with eyes brimming with tears. "Oh, honey," he whispered and moved a step toward her. Without thought, he took her in his arms. Her hands covered her face as she cried. He heard some mumbled words, and made out "I'm so sorry," at least twice.

She sobbed for a full minute before he tried to talk. "Sara," he pulled away from her but kept hands on her shoulders. "Sara, I'm speaking as your supervisor—this won't happen again. You'll get an official note in your folder, but after a year, it disappears. Understand?"

She managed a nod, but kept her eyes downcast.

He wrapped arms around her again. "Now, I'm speaking as your friend. We're going to eat something—while it warms up, you take a shower. I've put clean clothes in the bathroom." He turned and walked with her to the bathroom. "They're mine, too big, but I don't have any skinny girl clothes in the house." He chuckled. "I don't have any other women's clothes either."

He gently held her face between his palms and used his thumbs to wipe her cheeks. "You're going to be fine, right? Take a hot shower and we'll eat something. Then you are going to sleep in my bed tonight, okay?"

_A/N: Thanks for reading-and reviewing! _


	2. Chapter 2

**I'll Take You Home Chapter 2**

If Sara had not felt so miserable, she would have found humor in the neatly folded clothes, the little bottle of shampoo, and the small new bar of soap in the bathroom. Two big towels had been placed beside the clothes. She fingered the tee shirt, old and soft, and unwrapped the boxer shorts. She managed to snicker at the little bugs printed on the fabric. Surely, she thought, Grissom did not buy underwear with insects on them.

The bathroom was like the kitchen—almost too clean—the faint scent of bleach and something else disappeared when she turned on the water. The burst of hot water against her skin seemed to evaporate some of the tension and embarrassment of the past hours. She leaned against the cool tiles and let tears flow.

She wished she could change a hundred things in her life but that last drink and, in her mind tonight, overhearing Grissom's long uninterrupted speech to Lurie were two events she wanted to erase. Both events were connected in her mind. She wished she had never heard his words of "not taking a chance"—that night she had gotten so drunk she almost did not make it to her next shift. Eventually, she managed to pretend she had not heard Grissom's tedious comparison of his personal life with that of Lurie and after a few weeks, she stopped crying and drinking—almost—except for times like tonight when she could not "let go" of what was at the center of her heartbreak. Grissom did not want her yet he could find the words to tell a stranger, but he couldn't tell her. He wanted to be her "friend" and as difficult as it was, she hid her emotions, showed up for work, and kept working long after others had gone home managing to steal minutes of time with him as if some magic wand would cast a spell over him and cause a change in his thinking.

There had been moments that made her smile; other times her anger simmered. By the time they investigated the Galaxi roller coaster, they were "friends" again; on such good terms they shared a pizza and stayed awake for hours, talking in his office, talking in the parking garage as the sun came up, in the familiar way they had done in the past.

Sara turned off the shower and stood for several long minutes as water dripped from her body. She wished this night had happened in another way—not as a pity party, being fed leftovers because he knew she would not have food in her apartment. She wrapped a towel around her hair and another around her body and stepped onto a woven white rug. She sighed, dried her face, and looked in the mirror—a wet dog would look better, she decided.

Out of the shower, her observational skills kicked on, she inspected the bathroom again. The room was spotless—no stray hair, no stains—all white; even the shower door appeared unmarked by previous showers. Except for a toothbrush placed in a holder, the room appeared unused.

Grissom had placed a wide-tooth comb among the items with the stack of clothing. She examined it closely—new, no curling stray hair stuck to it. As she towel dried her hair, she thought about opening one of the cabinets along one wall, but decided against it. She pulled the shirt over her head, adjusted the boxer shorts by folding and rolling the band to fit her waistline. She finally laughed as she looked in the mirror at herself wearing Grissom's tee-shirt and his insect printed boxer shorts; her legs looked like two white matchsticks.

Well, she thought, as she shook out the long pants and put them on, she was well covered, a double layer all over as she pulled on the sweat shirt. Everything smelled of sun, fresh air—the same way he smelled. She pulled the shirt to her face and inhaled, deeply, filling her lungs with air. For the first time in hours she felt—better—she laughed as she rolled her own clothing into a tight ball. It wasn't what she had dreamed about and she refused to look at herself in the mirror again, but she was having dinner with Grissom in his home.

By the time she entered the kitchen, her nose smelled food, and surprised by the appearance of real plates, dinnerware and glasses set on the counter. Grissom looked up from slicing a fat tomato.

"Feeling better?" He asked.

"Yeah, thanks." She placed her rolled clothes in a chair and accepted the glass of juice. "Hot water helps—and thanks for the clean clothes." She fumbled fingers against the cloth of the sweat shirt.

Grissom nodded, moving his eyes from her head to bare feet. "It's cool in here—you want socks?"

Quickly she shook her head. "No, no, this is fine." She hooked her hip onto one of the stools and watched as he cut into a cheese covered crust. "What's this?"

He lifted a wedge shaped slice and placed it on a plate. "This, Sara, is squash and apple casserole—very good, and some tomatoes." He looked at her and winked. "Vegetarian, like I knew you were coming." He placed a plate in front of her. "Go ahead—taste it."

The food surprised her; the taste of squash and apples with a hint of rosemary and sharp cheese. The satisfying sound of "mmmm" escaped Sara's mouth as she nodded. "Delicious," she said. And suddenly, everything made sense—the clean kitchen, the food in the refrigerator, the spotless bathroom. She cut another bite. "You have a housekeeper who cooks for you."

Grissom chuckled. "I do. Miss Betty has been with me for—ten years, no eleven. Comes three days a week." He laughed again—one of his deep chest rumbling sounds of enjoyment. "Can you imagine what this place would look like without her? Worse than my office, I'm sure."

He pushed the tomatoes near her plate and took the seat beside her. "She cooks and leaves me food in the refrigerator. She cleans and keeps my clothes hanging up, and when she threatened to quit over my cockroaches, I decided it was better to have her than the…" He waved his fork in a way that finished his sentence.

Sara glanced around the townhouse. "The bugs look better hanging on the wall—I agree with Miss Betty." She snorted a sound that was almost a giggle. "Not sure I'd wear bugs either."

Grissom knew what she meant. "I didn't buy those—my mom bought me stuff printed with any kind of bug, insects for years until I finally said 'stop'—it's a little bit weird to get a package from Mom and find underwear or socks with bees or ladybugs or dragonflies on the stuff."

With his explanation, Sara laughed, the image of his description coming into her mind. "Ladybugs—she sent you ladybugs?" She giggled again as she forked a bite into her mouth.

Their quiet laughter seemed to crack a wall which rapidly opened into an easy, flowing conversation that continued until all the food was eaten, dishes were washed and put away, and realization settled on each that they were enjoying each other. As Grissom wiped away the last crumbs of the food, she said:

"You can drive me home; I'll be fine."

_A/N: Enjoy! More happening in future chapters! Leave us a review, Please!_


	3. Chapter 3

**I'll Take You Home Chapter 3**

Grissom looked up, "No, you're spending the night—sleeping here." He nodded toward the bedroom. "I don't have a guest room—not many overnight guests—so you take the bed and I'll sleep on the sofa."

She protested, but he quieted her by placing an arm around her shoulders. "The bed is yours. I'll shower and clear out so you can sleep." He walked her into the bedroom. "And when you wake up, I'll fix breakfast."

Suddenly, Sara felt the weight of the day's events crush her chest. Grissom's gentle kindness caused tears to sting her eyes. She wiped a hand across her face.

"I'm so sorry, Grissom."

He had folded the bedcovers back, padded the sheet with his hand, before standing. "If—if this needs to be talked about, we'll do it at work. Right now, I'm—I'm—let's get you to bed and get some sleep."

Sara dropped her head and nodded. She knew she would not sleep—not for hours. She felt as if some door had slammed shut, extinguishing a light she had carried for years. She managed to hide her sadness and misery until Grissom closed the bathroom door then she turned her head into his pillow and let tears flow. But even her tears could not suppress the scent of him—or the smell of clean sheets which, just like his towels, smelled of him. Hearing the water stop in the bathroom, she wiped her face and closed her eyes. She would pretend to be asleep until he left the room for the sofa.

"Sara!" The excited sound of his voice caused Sara to quickly sit up in bed. The light from the open door flooded the bedroom casting a long beam of brightness across the bed. "I found a new toothbrush—do you want to…" Grissom stopped in mid-sentence and mid-stride across the room. She was hastily wiping her face with the back of her hand.

Instead of retracing his footsteps, leaving the toothbrush, and turning off the light, he came to the bed and lowered himself down beside her, sitting so his thigh touched her calf. With a deep sigh, he took her hand. His close physical proximity was somehow comforting, Sara thought. It was a good feeling, yet, she knew it was a temporary one, and that thought sent a tearful realization flooding her eyes again.

For several minutes, Grissom remained quiet until he said, "It is clear that I'm doing something very wrong here, but I'm not sure what to do."

She sniffed and used a sleeve to wipe her eyes. As she pushed up from the bed, his hand touched her leg, almost a stroke in an effort to keep her in bed. She fell back against pillows and he lifted his hand. Sara folded her arms beneath her breasts and hugged herself. She had been in love with this confused man for as long as she had known love-making lasted longer than a song on the radio. And he had been the one to show her.

"I'm a tearful drunk, Grissom," she managed to say between sniffs and hiccups. She wasn't drunk but it sounded like a good enough reason for her nearly constant tears tonight. "I don't sleep much—I read or watch TV." She wiped her eyes again.

Grissom looked down at her shadowed face. Her eyes were dark, luminous pools made more beautiful by the way the light reflected her tears. He had to fight a sudden urge to touch the soft, delicate skin at the nape of her neck.

He forced himself to concentrate on something else. "I read when I go to bed too." He reached to the bedside table and picked up a hefty, well-used book. "Shakespeare—what if I read to you tonight?" He got up and walked to the other side of the bed, stretched out on top of the covers and switched on a lamp. "Do you have a favorite?"

"No." She sniffed.

He got out of bed, opened a drawer and handed her a white handkerchief, then stretched out again and opened the book. He flipped pages before deciding on one. "Sonnets are too short but here's one I enjoy. Do you know Benedick and Beatrice and Claudio and Hero?"

"No." She blew her nose, trying to be quiet with it.

Grissom smiled. "You'll like it." He began to explain the story and the cast of characters. Sara scooted underneath covers and wedged a pillow between her head and arm. She grew warm and tried to relax as he began to read the story of lovers, two who denied each other and two who lost each other temporarily. He read slowly, giving inflection and nuances to the words, and before the end of Act 3, when Benedick was sent to get Beatrice, Sara's regular breathing indicated she was asleep.

He turned out the lamp and realized the bathroom light illuminated the bed and where Sara slept appeared to be center stage of a spotlight. In bare feet he padded to the door and flicked the switch instantly putting the room in soft darkness, a glimmer from the windows gave him enough light to see. Sara stirred, mumbling some undecipherable words. Returning to the bedside, he watched as a frown developed across her face and she twisted in the covers. Her shaded outline, wavy hair against the white pillow, her eyelashes dark crescents against fair skin, tugged at his senses and tightened muscles in his belly.

Love was an emotion he did not often consider; he had seen too much damage caused by the word. Standing beside his bed watching Sara, he knew he loved her—actually knew there would never be another person he wanted in his life as he wanted her. He could remember with certain clarity the first time he saw her—asking questions, hair pulled into a ponytail, and displaying a dazzling smile that even today made him weak. His hand moved in the direction of her pillow—her hair was a tangled nest of curls and to curl one lock around his finger…

Control yourself, man, he thought. With frequent regret and increasing turmoil, he had turned away from certain passion with this beautiful woman and yet, Sara's restless movements caused him to remain where he stood. A bad dream, he thought. He walked around the bed and returned to the spot he had vacated minutes before. But now, he faced Sara as she tossed and turned, not awake, but disturbed sleep. Gently, he placed a hand over hers.

Quietly, almost in a whisper, he recited from memory a sonnet—one of dozens he had memorized over the years as exercise for his brain. When he began to speak, Sara calmed; he knew he heard a sigh, and within minutes, she seemed to relax and return to peaceful, quiet sleep.

This was unwise but not impulsive, he thought. He sighed so deeply he almost forgot to breathe. Rational thinking, sensible judgment told one part of him to leave the bed; another part of his brain made him stay.

_A/N: Sweet, gentle Grissom-in private-have to love him! Thanks for reading and reviewing-a few of you have a block on responses so here's your thanks! We do appreciate your comments. _

_This one looks to be 6 chapters, so enjoy! _


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: Thanks to all who are reading and reviewing! Taking off for a day at the beach, so enjoy this chapter! And YES, rating will change shortly!_

**I'll Take You Home Chapter 4**

…Faint light filtered around room darkening blinds when Sara stirred and opened confused eyes. She wasn't in her bed was her first thought before she remembered in a sudden flash-everything. She turned her head for the source of warmth and found him—Grissom asleep beside her—feet touching but separated by covers, his hand rested on her abdomen, which was well covered and padded by four layers of fabric, his forehead touched her shoulder. She smiled a sleepy grin; he had not slept on the sofa after all and she dared not moved as long as he slept. She smiled again; he snored—lightly, reassuring little noises that she heard sometime during the night, but sleeping on his side, his breathing was quiet, deep, and restful.

Because she was warm, because with a turn of her head she could observe tiny details of his face and hair, because this would not happen again, she wanted time to stand still. She could carry this memory with her—the fragrance of his clothes, the smell of his hair so near her nose when she woke, the feel of the weight of his hand on her belly—when he insisted they remain "friends". She blinked rapidly, shutting back tears at the thought of being friends instead of lovers. She mentally recited "I will not cry, I will not cry, I will not cry," until her tears dried.

Turning her face so her nose lay in his hair, she closed her eyes…

In the first seconds of waking, Grissom remembered he was not alone. A firm body, warm and breathing, lay underneath his hand while her hand rested atop his. He felt her face against his hair, soft breaths moving across his head. His feet—his feet were separated from hers by bedcovers but their feet were nested together in a familiar, comforting way; his bent knee rested on her leg. And it all felt—not weird or odd at all, but right—as life should feel, as waking up in bed with a woman one loves is supposed to be.

Conflict and confusion collided with his senses and in his brain as he realized what he was thinking. He had a sudden vision of his future—a split screen of his life—one with Sara and one without her. One as her friend and supervisor; the other as his lover, his companion, and mate. His insides turned icy at the thought of eating alone, of watching a movie—alone, of waking every day for the rest of his life without her. And the other image was one of laughter and talking, eating and sharing everything with Sara. An epiphany, he thought, a leap from denial to one of acceptance. What he had been avoiding for months seemed to rise in front of his face in high definition—he could have one or the other—and without Sara in his life, in his home, it would be extremely bleak.

The truth of his situation came into focus as quickly as his wakeful state. He had always admitted an attraction to Sara—he admired her intelligence. He found conversation with her exciting, challenging, and intensely pleasurable—more than any person he was around. And her laugh—this was ridiculous, he thought. He was adding up the assets of this woman as a miserly accountant. For several minutes, he watched the play of light and shadows dance across the room as the sun brightened the room.

"You love her," he whispered the words quietly to himself so he could hear them. His life would never be the same after months—no, it had been years—of denying his feelings. He had attempted to cure himself of her by spending time with other women, by burying himself in work, by avoiding her, by working shift after shift with her, all for nothing.

He wanted her. The sharpness of his desire caused his breath to catch in his chest. Her presence in his house had given him a taste of what would happen every day—eating together, cleaning the kitchen, even in the bathroom. He grinned at the thought—the shower could get interesting.

For one of the few times in his life, Gilbert Grissom made a decision without long consideration and methodical planning. Later, he would realize his entire life had been arriving at this point—at least since a seminar in San Francisco—but this morning he really thought he made a quick decision. And without pause, he wiggled his feet against Sara's. He raised his head, bent his arm to rest his head in a hand, and began to move his thumb along his sleeping companion's abdomen. He wanted her to wake with a smile, to know his touch as a caress, as caring, as a new beginning. He was no longer satisfied with being her friend; that idea was one of the stupidest things he had done in years.

The response of his body surprised him—as a man he often woke with an erection, but this morning, something else was happening as his hand touched Sara. There was a new sensation which he quickly realized as desire. He rolled to his stomach—he did not want Sara to see his aroused body—not yet, not this morning. He might be making a quick decision, but he wanted to plan—he wanted the two of them to make plans—together.

Within minutes, Sara opened her eyes. Her head came off the pillow in sudden surprise as she realized the close proximity of Grissom's face, his hand moving gently along her abdomen.

"Is something wrong?" She whispered.

Grissom chuckled, "no."

Her forehead wrinkled, her hand touched his. "Oh."

He held his breath, wondering what she would do. Slowly, her mouth curved in a smile.

"You didn't sleep on the sofa."

Whatever he expected, it was not this comment. "No, no, I didn't. I slept with you."

He had to force himself to respond with a composed voice. Powerful desire threatened to consume every other sensation—he would control himself, he vowed. He knew he had flirted then ignored her, disregarded her emotions, pushed aside her invitations for years and he had no doubt she would think this sudden change on his part was—he didn't know what she would think.

"Sara, we need to talk."

She stirred, a frown puckering her face; the smile disappeared.

"Not about last night," he hurried to add. His hand caught hers before she could move it to her face. He laced fingers between hers and brought it to his lips, gently kissing a knuckle.

He kept his eyes on their intertwined hands. "I've been—I want us to start over, Sara." His eyes remained on their hands—her fingers, long, slim, delicate against his own. "I don't know what to do about this—us." He felt her body tense. Hurriedly, he added, "I mean—I don't want this to continue, not the way it's been—as friends."

"What?" She struggled to throw covers off her legs, but he kept her hand in his. "Let go, Grissom!"

_A/N: Thanks so much-this one is 6-8 chapters_.


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N: Here's the next chapter! Just because you requested it and many of you have been so great to review-rating will change for Chapter 7! _

**I'll Take You Home Chapter 5**

Grissom immediately released her hand. She sat up, swinging legs and feet out of bed. He wasn't sure what he had done. "Sara," he said, quietly, "listen to me, please." This was difficult, increasingly uncomfortable, he thought, as he sat up, covering his swollen appendage with the covers she had tossed aside. She turned to look at him—beautiful, he thought—her hair in a curly mess around her face, her lips forming what could become a kiss, and her brow arching above her eyes. All of this muddled his ability to think, and in the quietness of the room, the sound of his heart, his breathing, roared in his ears making it impossible to think.

Their eyes met; her dark eyes, magnificent, large, and questioning but she said nothing.

Near choking with frustration, he touched her arm, forcing words. "Sara, I—I've been foolish, thoughtless." He paused trying to draw in air to calm his emotions. "I love you, honey."

If it were possible Sara's eyes opened wider. Her lips twitched, in a grin or a grimace, he wasn't sure.

"Since we met, I've had a connection with you—not just physically—that I can not hold back any longer. You are always in my mind, always," he paused again as Sara swiveled to fully face him. He slid his hand along her arm to her hand. "I know it is difficult—confusing, but I—I think its time we do something about this—about us."

Grissom expected something, a response, a smile, from Sara. Instead, she remained quiet. She dropped her eyes, turned her hand to hold his, a slight blush spread into her cheeks. When she replied, her words were so quietly spoken, he hardly heard them.

"Grissom, am I dreaming?" A finger traced along his hand. "I'm awake in a strange bed, in someone else's clothes, to see a familiar face say words I've wanted to hear for—how long?" Her voice came haltingly as she lifted her face. "Please—don't—don't do this out of pity." She struggled to catch her breath.

"Oh, Sara," he whispered, leaning forward to touch her face. "I've been so wrong—so stubborn—when all I've ever wanted is here with you." He gently touched her brow, lightly moving his finger along her cheek to her chin. Keeping one hand on her chin, he brought her hand to his lips and kissed one finger followed by another, then held them close against his chest, somewhere above his heart.

He did not know how it happened, but they were kissing, lips touching, her slim fingers touching his face in a caress as gentle as butterfly wings. When they parted, their heads came together in an unexpected way—she was smiling and so was he. Neither said a word for several minutes as what they had just done settled in their minds, and, for the romantic, in their hearts.

Sara actually felt her heart began to mend from its miserable state.

Grissom felt relief; his initial fear of rejection disappeared. He kissed her again before she expected it, kissed her nose and her lips.

He chuckled, "I think I'm going to like this," he said.

Sara giggled; her laughter rippling and cascading to his ears was one of the finest sounds he could remember hearing in months. She shifted on the bed, bringing both knees together and wrapping her arms around her legs.

He wished her arms were around him, but he sat back as she spoke:

"What caused this?" Her voice changed to a teasing tone. "Is this pity—do you think of me as a stray dog you can take in and house train? Provide me with food and water and I'll become you bed buddy or feet warmer?"

Looking at her bare feet, noticing her toenails were bright red, he let one finger trace each toe. "No—I don't need a dog—I want to—to love the girl who…" he looked up, "loves me."

Instant tears came to her eyes. "Why now, Grissom? After all this time of teasing and flirting, ignoring me for days at a time—why now?" She blinked rapidly, quickly swiping fingers across her eyes.

He kept his finger tracing along her foot sensing the wretched uncertainty in her voice. Lightheartedly, he said, "I like these cute toes—I never get to see your toes, you know." His eyes locked with hers, and seeing her solemn face, almost in tears, he said, "All my life I have been a selfish person. As a child, I was taught what was right, to hold my temper, taught good principles—but I learned to be selfish and self-centered—to think first of me." His hands moved to hers and she let him fold his hands around hers.

"I know I've hurt you, Sara, because of my selfish ways—and I'm sure it will happen again." His eyes dropped. "Last night, I enjoyed having you in the kitchen, eating with you, reading in bed—when I woke this morning and you were next to me, something happened. I realized how stupid I've been, how obstinate, pigheaded, I've been—I've learned a difficult lesson, I think." His voice caught, and he stopped, hesitant, not knowing what to say.

With a simple graceful movement, Sara rose to her knees and hugged him, sweetly kissing the top of his head. Her arms wrapped around his neck, her hands combed into his hair; Grissom's arms went around her waist in response. With his head against her chest, he realized she was breathing deeply, slowly releasing air as she held him.

Finally, he heard her say, "Oh, Grissom," before she kissed him again, slowly moving to his upturned face. When she bent her knees, folding herself to sit in front of him, she kept his face between her palms. "I think we should eat—and talk about this—about us." She smiled, then drew her lips together in what Grissom thought was an extremely sexy expression. "Ecklie isn't going to like this."

It was Grissom's turn to laugh. "Well, you know, we don't have to tell him," he growled. He kissed her, lightly, briefly, as his feet touched the floor. He adjusted his pants. "Don't laugh but I have to go to the bathroom."

He heard her giggle as he closed the door.

_A/N: Next chapter soon-enjoy! Thanks for reviews! _


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N: Enjoy! Rating changes for Chapter 7!_

**I'll Take You Home Chapter 6**

Ten minutes later, Grissom found her in the kitchen, smelled coffee, saw two cups sitting side-by-side, and, gazing at her standing in his kitchen, every cell in his body seemed to come alive. He grinned, "I like this." She looked good—more than good, sexy, he thought, as she leaned against the counter in his clothes, watching coffee drip into the pot. She had done something with her hair—pulled it back—he realized. He stopped his brain from processing additional thoughts; he—they needed to move slowly with this.

Sara smiled one of her enigmatic grins, ducked her head, and touched one cup. "Coffee's almost ready."

Several seconds passed before he could think of what to do or say. "Cereal—there's cereal in the cabinet. Or fruit—in the bowl." As he indicated the bowl, he noticed a cut apple on the countertop. He chuckled, "you found fruit."

Sara poured coffee and passed the first cup to him.

"I have tea," he offered.

"I think I need coffee today." Again, she smiled, but this time it was in a way that made him feel—safe.

They drank in silence as contentment came over him. Would this be what life would be like, the sense of completeness from her presence, he thought. When her brown eyes, soft and expecting, turned to his, desire suddenly urged him to take the two or three steps to bring her into his arms. He could caress her face, kiss her lips, find the soft hidden areas of her body he remembered so well; his rational mind took over and he stopped before he touched her.

"Grissom."

"Sara."

Their words collided causing both to stop. She nodded for him to continue as he did the same toward her. He reached out his hand and discovered Sara's hand was waiting.

"When did you begin to love me?" she asked, her eyebrow arched in an extremely provocative way.

Grissom laughed. "I'm not sure when I knew it was love—last night maybe or that time with the pig—but it began in San Francisco. I saw your compassion with Pam Adler, your bravery when you went into that store for the FBI, how beautiful you were at the ice rink that day wearing that goofy cap, your intelligence when we were working the Ashleigh James case—I knew that day you were so far ahead of the rest of us." He stepped closer and placed his arm around her shoulders. "I can go on and on if you want." When she said nothing, he added, "I can add a few times when I saw that Sidle anger, too."

Sara had wrapped both hands around her coffee cup. "How do we go about this—I can't work for you—I'll have to change shifts."

Grissom took the cup from her hands and placed it beside his. "What if we don't tell—we are just beginning this," his thumb waggled between them. "I don't take my personal life into the office—I don't think you do that either. We can be professional—we can work together. See each other after work." He remembered too well the lab gossip swirling around one boyfriend of Sara's and the end of that relationship as related to him by Catherine.

She nodded.

"What do you think?"

Sara leaned against his shoulder and brushed her lips against his neck. "Okay—I like that," she kissed him again, "I agree; no one needs to know."

Actually, it was much easier than either thought it would be. They went to work that night and no one noticed anything different between them. And Grissom began a somewhat formal, old-fashion courtship. For a week, he showed up at her door after their shift with food, twice brought from his kitchen, and little surprise gifts—a Shakespeare book, a movie, a scarf, a mounted butterfly, an expensive pair of socks.

When he held out the socks as she opened her door, her ringing laughter caused her neighbor to crack the door across the landing.

"Hey, Mrs. Andrews!" Sara said. "I just got a pair of new socks," Sara held out the socks for the old woman to see.

Grissom saw one eye and half of a wrinkled face. He waved his fingers at the doorway before Sara dragged him inside her apartment.

"She checks on me—sweet, harmless, but somewhat nosey," Sara explained.

They ate at her table, moved to her sofa and watched movies or television, and they talked—mostly about work and those at work, but Grissom never ventured into her bedroom. At some point during each visit, after two hours or once after six hours when he had fallen asleep during a movie, he kissed her, gathered her into his arms and said "I love you, Sara" and left her alone to sleep.

Sara was perplexed when he made no move to take their new relationship to the obvious next physical level. It wasn't as if they had never had sex and it wasn't that he wasn't aroused by her—she had seen and felt the observable evidence when he hugged her and said "sleep tight."

Sara had two days off so she went shopping, determined to move things forward. She smiled as she hauled her purchases inside and went to work. By the time Grissom arrived—she knew within minutes when he would quietly knock on her door—she had transformed her bedroom. She had certain personal items for double protection. She had a selection of foods she knew he liked—"sexed up" is the term Catherine used—but Sara preferred to think she was completing a puzzle.

When she opened the door for Grissom, he knew he would not be leaving for hours; her eyes appeared enormous in the glow of the light. Her dark hair was pulled back with wisps of curls escaping around her face and she wore a simple shirt—or dress of some kind—that stopped mid-thigh.

"You look good," he said. He had stopped for pastries and held the box out to her. "Better than these."

Her mouth curved in a slow, sensual smile. He forced himself to stay calm as desire threatened to consume his ability to move. Once inside and her door closed, he took her into his arms and kissed her before she could say another word. Her hands pushed his jacket away from his shoulders and he felt her fingers press into his back. Her mouth opened slightly, allowing him inside. She kissed him as greedily as he had kissed her.

_A/N: Thanks for reading-take a second to review our efforts! Next chapter soon! _


	7. Chapter 7

_A/N: Here's the next chapter, rated "M" cause it has a few words in it that might be rated mature! Enjoy! _

**I'll Take You Home Chapter 7**

It had been so long—Sara had ached for him and then felt all was lost for so long, that the excitement of being held and loved by the man she loved nearly caused her to lose her balance, aware only of the man holding her, his voice, the scent of his skin, the softness of his shirt, the crushing pressure of his mouth. Her body felt weightless, responding to the demand of his hands and lips pulling her from a shell she had kept tightly shut for months.

Finally, with a joint relieved sigh, they turned and walked to her bedroom where she had already turned down the bed. A single lamp cast its light upward, softening the colors of her new pillows and coverlet. Beside the bed, discretely placed in a small crystal bowl, were several condoms. For the same reasons common to many women, Sara took birth control pills but she had decided the option of additional protection might ease Grissom's unspoken concerns.

"Are you certain?" He asked some time later. They were in a very slow process of undressing each other, or he thought of it that way because his shirt was no longer buttoned and his hand had found its way to her butt. The feel of her skin, the silky texture of her panties—he knew they were new—was enough to push him into a tangle of emotions that surpassed anything he might think or say. He had managed the tiny pearl buttons on the front of her shirt; he could still take in air.

Sara's passionate kisses seemed to will him into lovemaking; his mouth opened on hers, his tongue responded to hers, and then hands were urgent and demanding, removing her thin shirt. Sara felt his hands cup her breasts and his mouth enclosed her left nipple and she closed her eyes to let herself be engulfed in the heat that seemed to flow from his touch. His mouth lingered on her breasts as he managed to slip his shirt from his body, pulling away as he did so. She opened her eyes, surprised to find how cold and lost she felt without his body close to hers. In a moment, he was holding her, pressing her body along his.

Their bodies curved together as each remembered, softness and hardness fitting together. Sara slipped her hand between their bodies and slid her slim fingers and palm along his very hard penis, listening to the sound that broke from his lungs, loving the feeling of knowing she could do that to him. Quickly, his arm reached for the wrapped packet at the bedside but Sara was the one to open it, and when he pushed himself away from her, she rolled the thin covering onto his erection.

Grissom stretched above her on the bed, brushing her skin with long strokes that felt like a warm current of water against her shoulder, between her breasts, and along her abdomen. His fingers reached the triangle of chestnut hair between her legs and explored her dark, wet center, reaching deep inside, his mouth on her breasts again, sucking, licking her erect nipples. Sara's breath came in a lingering moan as she tried to pull him into her, but he would not yield. His fingers and mouth possessed her, heating her until she seemed to grow into a long flame that blocked out everything else. And then he moved and Sara felt the wonderful warmth of his body above her; she raised her hips and pulled him into her, the plunging hardness of him, the sureness of his movements—her body followed, moved with his as she was filled by the man who loved her. Her body came alive as a morning breeze came through the open window. They moved together in a rhythm known to lovers so closely entwined they made one shadow on the wall.

Sara slept and when she woke, the sun had brightened the room and the cool morning breeze had settled into an occasional warm draft. She opened her eyes and found two sapphire ones watching her. She smiled, drowsily. "I dream of waking up and finding you here. Did I sleep long?"

Grissom slipped an arm around her and cradled her to his chest. "About an hour. Long enough for me to recover." The smile on his face released any nervousness of waking in bed with a new lover.

"I feel good—really good." She closed her eyes and placed small kisses on his chin, his chest, the hollow of his throat.

Raising himself on one elbow, Grissom leaned over her and kissed her eyes, her lips, moved along her neck, down to take her breasts in his mouth, first one and then the other, playing with his tongue over nipples, slow, teasingly, while his hand, just as slowly and lightly, moved along the soft skin inside her thigh. Sara lay still, letting the waves of sensation built within her, lifting her as if she were floating in a dream.

They made love slowly, tasting each other, learning the soft sounds and tiny movements, gestures and expressions that lovers know, laughing as the past and present merged and the emptiness inside them filled—longing and loneliness gone. They made love again and talked through the day, the sounds of the afternoon came to them as if from a distant place. They pulled the pale blue bed sheet around them and the closeness of being wrapped together aroused them again and, almost without moving, Grissom was inside Sara and they moved together in natural rhythm to culminate in the passionate sound of her name on his lips.

Some time later, as they had both dosed after climax, Sara felt his lips along her shoulder, his hand caressed her neck, his thumb traced along the angle from ear to chin. "Sara," he murmured, "I didn't think—this last time—I did not use a condom."

Instead of the concern he expected, he heard her quiet laugh. "I'm safe, Grissom, as I'm sure you are." She turned her face to his. "I've waited a very long time for this—I don't want you to think I'll do something foolish—I could not do that." She touched his face, gently, as drawing it from memory. "I am extremely private," she laughed again, "in case you have not noticed. All I want is you, Grissom."

Her tender words unexpectedly touched Grissom. He knew more about Sara and her past than he would ever tell her. When he asked her to come to Vegas, it had not taken much of a search to learn her mother had killed her father—not details, but enough to know why Sara was so passionate and obsessed with cases involving battered and abused women.

He kissed her, smiling. "I know, honey, I know." He unwrapped the sheet from his body, tucking it around Sara. "I'll be right back." He slid from the bed and walked across the room.

Sara watched him, his naked legs showing the angle of one knee slightly off center, his foot pointed inward, his butt round and muscular. There was energy in his walk, she thought, an air of tenacious intensity. She stretched in bed, remembering the weight of his body on hers, the embrace in his eyes, the sound of his voice. He had closed the bathroom door and took longer than she expected, but in minutes, the door opened and he returned to her bed, sliding beside her.

"I could get use to this," he said, his arms wrapping around her at the same time his legs found hers. When his damp face touched hers, she realized he smelled of soap and mouthwash.

"You cheated," she said, pushing herself away from him and out of bed. "You smell good." By the time she returned, he was asleep, middle of the bed, arms and legs spread in the position of the Vitruvius man. She found her gown and went to the sofa. In the middle of the small table was her mail, an official letter from Human Resources requiring her to attend counseling for her "alcohol related incident". At least the director had been tactful; she re-read the letter. One line "with the concurrence of your supervisor" fixed into her mind.

She wrapped a light weight blanket around her shoulders, curled up, and tried to sleep. She choked back tears; Grissom had not mentioned the letter or the counseling—this was the part of their relationship that was going to be most difficult—separating the man who was her supervisor from the man who was her lover. She sniffled and closed her eyes. She wouldn't think about it now, she thought; she was tough and flexible and secretive. Counseling was not new to her, neither were secrets. But Grissom could have warned her about the letter.

_A/N: Good news-we've extended this one to 10 chapters. So enjoy, review, please! How's the sweet smut?_


	8. Chapter 8

**I'll Take You Home Chapter 8**

Grissom found her asleep. He showered and dressed, made coffee, ate a muffin, and watched Sara sleep. He saw the letter, but did not take it from her hand. He had meant to talk with her about the required counseling but other 'things' came up; his phone buzzed. Stuffing the last of the muffin in his mouth, he stepped outside her door to take the call and heard the 'click' of the latch before realizing he was locked out.

The message from Brass was "get out here quick". He felt for his keys, fumbled with them as he made the decision to leave. He would call later, he thought.

The crime scene was thirty-two miles from Vegas—one of those middle-of-nowhere pull out places on the highway with three abandoned cars and a trail of blood smears and drops leading to tangled brush five hundred yards from the road. The driver of a truck had noticed blood in the back seat of one of the cars. The highway patrolman had found the bodies hidden in the bushes.

Grissom called Nick and Warrick but he had to patch through dispatch to reach them because of poor cell phone reception. The hot sun had baked the bodies and brought out an array of insects and while insects usually kept his undivided attention, this afternoon he kept returning to Sara—her bed—her body—the glistening perspiration on her naked breasts. It had been hours of firsts for him: first time he had made love to a woman he loved as he did Sara, first time he had seen a woman climax like a man, first time sex had been a mutual luxury, an extravagance of passion where his reluctance had vanished, first time he had experience such a feeling of happiness after sex.

He knew this new relationship with Sara was fraught with the potential for disaster. Ecklie would try to fire him, demand that Sara be switched to another shift and probably demoted. In his thoughts, Grissom could hear Ecklie lecturing, moralizing about lab policy. He decided not to worry about Ecklie—he could remind Ecklie of several dubious incidents in his past—and Sara was so private about her life, Grissom knew she would not tell anyone.

Grissom's mind snapped back to the bodies around him with the clatter of arrival of others. Lights, gurneys, cameras, questions, more people, more questions and no answers kept the three men busy until late in the morning as they tracked names, cars, family members, possible witnesses, and nineteen hours later had nothing to trace a killer. Grissom's eyes closed as he realized he was exhausted, then grinned at the reason. It wasn't dead bodies.

Grissom knocked at the door of Sara's apartment an hour after he left the lab, freshly showered, with a plan of taking her to dinner and returning to his place. It was time for a change of scenery, he decided.

Sara opened the door wearing a white shirt and jeans, her hair pushed behind her ear, looking astonishingly beautiful to his eyes. "Hello," he said.

"Come in."

He wanted to kiss her but she had not given him the chance as she backed into the room.

"Help yourself to a drink." She sat down in the chair.

He stared at her. "Is something wrong?"

"Nothing—get yourself a drink. Tell me about your day."

He crossed the room, hesitant about how she had greeted him, and knelt in front of her chair. "Sara, what's wrong?" He took her hand. She seemed to be close to tears. "Sara?"

"Where have you been?"

"I've been at work."

Her voice quivered, "And where do you think I've been?"

Grissom shook his head. "Here, I don't know." He did not understand what she meant. "I've been working—three dead bodies—and—and are you mad at me?"

A deep, loud breath came between them.

"I don't understand—explain, tell me what's wrong." He did not know what had upset her. His hand reached for her chin. He was ready to be humble, to apologize for—for whatever he had done, but he was not willing to play a guessing game.

Sara sniffed and Grissom knew she was trying not to cry. She said: "You left without a word but I can understand that—an emergency. But you could call." Her eyes refused to meet his but rolled upward as she exhaled another deep breath. "An email even—after what we did, Grissom—I wanted you to remember—not leave me alone."

He remembered the letter she had held in her hand. They had not talked about it, but it was work, supervisory stuff that should be discussed in his office, not here. And she had not mentioned it, only a phone call, or the lack of a call; he was confused.

"Just a quick call—thirty seconds, Grissom."

To him, her words made no more sense than they had at the start of this conversation, but he could hear the pain in her voice. "I'm sorry," he said, "please forgive me for being a fool." He took both her hands in his. "You are the most wonderful thing that's happened to me for a long time—perhaps ever." He looked away and spoke again, almost thinking aloud. "I'm sorry—I should have called." He wanted to say he had accidently locked the door; that he had thought of her all night and half of the day, that he wanted to be with her instead of sweating over bug infested bodies but he also wanted to be honest.

He moved to the sofa and brought her with him. This would be easier if he could hold her near him. He gave her a tentative grin. Softly, he began, "I'm sorry, Sara, I am detached. I get involved in work; I look at everything from a distance." His hand wiped across his face. "I do care—especially for you—and I do love you. But I refuse to do pointless things, gestures, empty deeds just because others do those things and end up living a lie. Either we love each other or we don't; we trust each other, or we don't, and all the phone calls, boxes of candy or flowers in the world won't make any difference. I did think of you, all day; but each time I thought of you, I turned my mind back to processing those bodies. I have to work that way—stick my nose in the microscope and sort of forget everything else—and I don't worry about you when I know you're okay. Can you imagine yourself getting used to that?"

She nodded her head, "Yes."

He hugged her closer. "Can I take you to dinner?"

She nodded again.

"Can I kiss you hello?"

Another nod, "Yes, please."

He took her face in his hand and kissed her. Her mouth was soft, yielding, moist, tasting sweet. He thought he could go on kissing her for hours and never get tired.

Eventually, she drew back, took a deep breath and said, "Is the dinner invitation still available?"

"It is—a nice, private place—a private club. Something else, too." He pinched the bridge of his nose, hesitating for a few seconds. "Would you like to spend some time at my place?"

The man who opened the dark wooden door called Grissom by name. A short entrance hall, wood paneled with a checkered black and white marble floor, opened into three rooms; the dining room was on the right. There were not many tables, but each one was an intimate circle booth, high walls blocked wandering eyes of anyone who might be able to see in the dimly lit interior. A solitary man dressed in a tux sat at a piano a few yards in front of them and played melodies of the kind Sara associated with operas or lawn concerts. Waiters brought beverages and food without benefit of a menu, placing small white plates holding bite size portions in front of them and with a motion of hand or fork, Grissom ordered what they liked.

"I've been coming here for years," he explained. "Any time I wanted to be alone—a few times I brought someone."

Sara's eyebrow arched, but as her mouth was filled with a delicious balsamic roasted asparagus and her fork was poised over Zafrani Pulao, she remained quiet wondering who he had brought to this luxurious place.

Grissom seemed to read her mind, saying "My mother and her friends loved coming here." Sara smiled. Deciding to change the subject, he continued, "The chef prepares a dozen or so recipes, you get to taste everything and decide what you want to eat."

In the middle of their meal, Grissom reached into his jacket pocket and produced a key. "For you—to my house." And he explained, to her mirth, how he got locked out of her apartment. He loved her laugh; he loved the way her eyes sparkled as she leaned toward him. He loved that she wore a simple cream-colored dress with a deep V neck. He suspected it was new. And during dessert, they talked about work—about her letter, the required counseling, his need to separate being her supervisor from being her—he stumbled over words until she filled in "lover" which caused him to smile.

"A new DNA tech is coming in to take Greg's place, so he gets more field work."

A broad smile came across her face. "I'm taking another day off—my first required counseling appointment is tomorrow," Sara sighed. She did not want to do this but she had no choice.

Grissom nodded and reached for her dessert. "Are you going to finish this?" When she said no, he did…

_A/N: Ten chapters in this one, appreciate you reading, and now REVIEW, please! Next chapter is a little bit of sweet smut-so review and next chapter quickly! Thanks!_


	9. Chapter 9

_A/N: One more chapter in this little fanfic! Enjoy, review if you like it! Gives us inspiration for writing!_

**I'll Take You Home Chapter 9**

There was a difference in being in Grissom's home as a visitor and as his girlfriend, Sara thought. For one thing, she was meeting his housekeeper. She knew her eyes grew as big as saucers when he said: "Miss Betty will be there when we arrive—I want you to meet her." He said it as easily as he would ask for a bindle. All she could do was agree with a nod of her head.

He opened the door and called out, "We're here!" He took Sara's hand as they walked into the kitchen.

If Sara had tried to imagine how the housekeeper looked, it was not who looked up at her from the kitchen. A tiny bird of a woman who appeared to be in her mid-fifties stood in the spotless kitchen. She had delicate features that appeared frail, but somehow Sara knew this was deceptive. Bright eyes sparkled as she came toward them, a smile on her face.

"Betty Graham meet Sara Sidle," Grissom said. The two women shook hands and the older woman enclosed Sara's hand with both of hers. "Betty is here on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, Sara. Anything you need or want—just let her know." He grinned, confident each woman would approve of the other.

The housekeeper spoke first, "I'm so happy to meet you—can I call you Sara?" Her honey-colored curls shook in Grissom's direction. "Gilbert needs a woman in his life! Not a housekeeper," her laugh chortled and teased. "Someone to talk to and—and all those things couples do!"

"Thank you," Sara said, uncertain of what to say to a woman familiar with Grissom's daily life, the person who washed and folded his clothes, and someone who called him 'Gilbert!'

"I must be going." Betty Graham gathered a large purse and a coat from a chair. "Sara, anything you want, you leave me a note. Gilbert would eat cheap cereal and drink bad milk if we let him." Her eyes twinkled as she glanced at Grissom. "There's food in the refrigerator—eat it!" And with those words she was gone—out the door, turning a key in the lock as she left.

Grissom disappeared with the small bag of personal items he had insisted Sara bring, returned to tinker with blinds to let late sunlight fill the place while Sara wandered around the large space that made up his kitchen, dining room, and living room. While not starkly austere, it was furnished simply to meet basic needs and provide comfort. There were several odd mementoes of the past, a few photographs, and assorted dead bugs; Sara studied a large framed mounting board displaying a dozen butterflies.

"Glasswings," Grissom said from behind her shoulder. "Or _Greta oto_ or _eopejitos_ 'little mirrors'." His arm reached around her as he pointed to wings. "The wings are transparent with the border a bright color. See this? The males are more colorful, more red and orange. In the wild, the males will gather together—it's called lekking—to show off."

Sara turned to look at him. "Oh, I've seen that," she said with a laugh. When he looked puzzled, she added, "in the parking lot at work."

He chuckled and agreed. "One day I hope to see these in Costa Rica." Those were the last words he said as she turned to face him, his arm seemed to circle her body and he had to kiss her. When she felt the touch of his tongue on her lower lip, she knew there would be no more talk of butterflies.

When his fingers touched her neck to remove her scarf, his movements so exquisitely intimate, she trembled. And then his mouth was on her earlobe; she felt the edge of his teeth against her skin. He cradled her breast in his palm in such a delicate way that she heard herself moan with pleasure. Her body seemed to move on its on as her hips moved toward him, rippling muscles sending waves of desire from her belly to her brain.

She met his gaze, saw rising heat in his eyes and, oddly breathless, felt the knee-weakening warmth pooling in her lower body. She could not bring herself to look away from the blaze in those sapphire eyes. She took in his unique, intriguing scent—one that was familiar yet so nearly overwhelming that she closed her eyes and dampened her lips with the tip of her tongue to enhance its effect.

Sara's hand moved to the front of his white shirt where she flattened her palm over his heart, feeling the reassuring rhythm of it. At her touch, she heard a low, hungry groan deep in his chest. His mouth closed over hers. Her hands slipped to encircle his neck. He reacted by pressing fingers into her back and bringing her against his aroused body.

They seemed to tumble and stumble across the floor, feet lost shoes, Sara's dress was unzipped, and Grissom's shirt unbuttoned before they reached the bed. Several seconds passed as Grissom pushed her dress away from her shoulders, seized a fistful of the soft fabric and crumbled it all the way to her thighs. When he let go, the dress pooled around her ankles. With the exposure of her body, Sara stopped breathing. She closed her eyes as his hand moved along her abdomen, her hip, and her thigh. He bent to his knees, one hand remaining on her backside as if to steady her; the other touched the front of her body.

His fingers seemed featherlike, almost imperceptible, as he went from her belly to the crest of her hip to her inner thigh. Sara's eyes closed—he kissed her below her navel and she shivered as waves of desire rippled throughout her body—she thought of a warm ocean current as sensation hit her brain. Gentle surf turned into a crashing wave as his kisses moved from her belly; his fingers slid her panties along her legs to join the dress, his mouth kissed her again, lower. The effect of his intimate touch set off a powerful aching sensation and she twisted, seeking more, unable to continue standing while he threaded fingers through the soft nest of hair that concealed the most private place on her body.

Grissom felt her loss of control and swiftly lowered her to the bed behind her. She watched as he fumbled with his pants, stepped out of them, and slipped into bed beside her. He fumbled again, attempting to open a bedside drawer.

Sara managed a whisper, "No—no need." Her panting breathing caused him to shift, covering her body with his.

The touching of their bodies, the feel of his hand moving slowing along her spine almost sent her over the brink of conscious thought. Her pelvic muscles contracted, desire so powerful it threatened to consume every other sensation thundered through her veins. When he urged his rigid shaft between her legs, she made a tiny, breathless sound that quickly turned into a gasp of pleasure. She was aware of his probing erection, finding the damp throbbing entrance of her body.

Sara was unsure if she made a sound, or if her brain was incapable of functioning at this point. She was rapidly approaching a crescendo of passion that would not be stopped.

Grissom sensed her impending climax; her muscles tightened in rhythmic contractions around his erection. He caught her head between his palms and kissed her and rocked against her, driving himself deeper, moving faster as her muscles worked to pull him deep inside. As quickly as her climax had pushed her over the edge of reason, he groaned with the intensity and pleasure of his own orgasm. When it was over, he collapsed, sprawling across Sara, his arm curved possessively around her.

A short time later, she called him "Gilbert" in such a way that made him realize no one had ever said his name with the same nuance of feeling. Much later, after saying words that had no meaning except to lovers, the two slept. Sara, because she had rarely slept in a bed with another person, was surprised to find she could sleep and later mentioned this to Grissom.

His reply was, "I won't hurt you, Sara." He bent his elbow to support his head with his hand. "I know there are times when you don't sleep—yet you are unwilling to leave the bed." He kissed the tip of her nose. "We have lived alone most of our lives. We both need space—some time I need to be alone, but that doesn't mean I love you less."

Sara nodded, understanding his meaning in ways he had yet to comprehend.

_A/N: Thanks for reading! And your reviews! One more chapter tomorrow to complete this one!_


	10. Chapter 10

_A/N: Here's the last chapter of this short fanfic! Thanks to all of you who read and, especially the readers who also review and send us comments! It does mean a lot to us to hear you enjoy our treatment of Grissom and Sara! _

_With the completion of this story, we are taking a break-have several changes happening including 2 of us heading to separate colleges which may interfer with our joint writing process. We have several stories "in progress" and we will post those as we finish them. We appreciate all of you who have marked us for author alerts-maybe sooner than later you will get that notice of a new story!_

_We also hope CSI and William Petersen realize fans want to hear about Grissom! And this "Grissom in Paris" storyline becomes "Grissom in Vegas"! _

**I'll Take You Home Chapter 10**

It would be weeks before the need to be alone would occur and it would happen because a few bones found in a storm drain caused Sara's thoughts to return to her past. A child learning about destruction, living in a house where violence and cruelty was normal troubled her well-being and started a small crack in the invisible shield she had erected around a secret.

When she spoke to Grissom, "I need a little time" she said, he understood, but he called her later.

"You okay?" he asked.

"I'm fine, just needed to think—quietly—for a while—I did laundry," she said. "Cleaned out my refrigerator."

"I miss you being here," he whispered. He had tried to get her to bring laundry to his house or let Betty do her laundry, but she refused. He knew the bomb scare had affected him, especially when he heard of Sara's involvement, but he also recognized the need to have one's private time.

One case after another seemed to cause concern that could not be shaken as shift ended. They talked about the little girl killed by her brother, the man who loved his bird, and the return of a serial killer, in the quietness of Grissom's home. He paced for hours over the surprise finding of a fingerprint. Gradually, they learned to live with each other.

One morning Sara arrived to find Grissom had cleaned out a drawer at bedside for her personal items; a part of his closet became a place for some of her clothes and the same thing happened at her place. Then Ecklie broke the team apart. Grissom was much more affected than he appeared; he worried about Nick and Warrick. It troubled him that Catherine was not given the promotion she wanted and that Sophia was demoted.

"It does mean we get to work together," he said, a grin on his face as he came out of the bathroom. "Of course, it also means we continue to keep us a secret."

Sara shrugged. "That doesn't bother me." She liked the private time they spent together, not having to share him with others. She was stretched across his bed wearing his boxers and her tee-shirt. He patted her bottom as he sat beside her.

"I like having you here," he said. "Even when I go in early—Miss Betty likes having you here." He continued to dress. "You know she buys what you want and I get no junk food."

Sara giggled.

Too quickly another case sent another crack into the shield Sara had erected around her past. After Greg found the dead child in the plastic bin and they discovered his two brothers, Sara sat alone as she read the record of her mother's crime. She glanced up and saw Sofia with Grissom. She needed to be alone, she thought. Sofia would entertain him for an hour with her flirting and sharing of stories about Ecklie and others on day shift. She needed silence and time to think. She read the court record again; she was one line in the multi-page report: "The minor child was taken into state custody."

For two weeks, Grissom knew something bothered Sara. They divided time between her place and his—he left clothes in her closet and learned where she kept a secret stash of candy. Once he mentioned sharing his townhouse, but Sara quickly changed the subject. She started walking the mile or so distance between his place and her apartment. She ate less and he caught her daydreaming, distracted in odd ways, but she refused to acknowledge that anything was causing her worry, quickly smiling, responding with "I'm fine". If there was something, it did not interrupt their love-making; she was passionate, perhaps more-so, she was loving and tender, affectionate and gentle, and funny with him.

Together, in bed, he loved her ability to laugh. Before and after sex, he heard her throaty giggle as a treasured sound. It happened as she nicknamed several parts of his anatomy, when she lost underwear in bedcovers, or when they tangled as they discarded clothing. But outside of the bedroom, her laugh was no longer as spontaneous as it once was. He was not sure when it disappeared—the boy who had starved in the care of an aunt had troubled her but it was not the worse case she had worked.

The day Catherine called about finding two bodies in tar; he left Sara sleeping and later, switched Sara to help with the case, searching for identities of the two skeletal females. He lost track of time until Ecklie arrived in his doorway, in a rage about something—Sara. His heart sank before he realized Ecklie was talking about Catherine and Sara and a blow-up between them in the hallway of the lab.

He immediately left the lab…

Grissom knew Sara's mother had killed her father—he had known since he asked her to come to Vegas. He did not know she had witnessed the final fight. The knife, the blood, the police, the social worker, the final dissolution of her family—she narrated her story to Grissom—he knew the official details—the private misery she had endured seemed to gather strength, destroying her usual strength of will and mind. He reached for her hand. Her fingers twisted in order to clasp his more tightly.

Later, he made tea and placed it in her hands.

"Can you sleep?"

She tried to laugh as she said, "If I'm fired, I'll have plenty of time to sleep."

Grissom stretched on the bed, punched a pillow under his head, and closed his eyes, motioning for her to join him. "You won't be fired, Sara." One eye opened. "But you will have to take the suspension. Are you okay about that?"

She settled beside him. "And we will still work together?"

"Yeah." He yawned. "Are you going to be okay—about everything? You know you could visit your mother. I could fly out to join you in San Francisco for a day."

"Would you do that?"

"I'd leave the biggest crime scene of the century for you," he chuckled and hugged her, sloshing tea on his pants as he did so. They laughed; Sara knew the truth.

_Epilogue _

The Dick and Jane killings had made headlines across the country and now it seemed the convicted killer had an apprentice who had reached the same skill level as the original.

Grissom looked at the details of the flights he had just changed—another week. He was not yet leaving but staying reluctantly, in a world in which human beings hated and schemed and killed or were killed. He walked into the kitchen where his housekeeper kept things neat and organized and waiting—for Sara; Hank brushed his leg and he reached to pat the dog's head. The dog would stay with Betty until they returned.

Hank and Betty seemed to understand what he was doing; it was time to change direction. Rigor mortis, interrogation, decomposing flesh and smashed bodies, he was finished with it. There were other things to do with his time. He had found it difficult to say the words to Nick and Catherine, Greg and Jim, even David Hodges. It was a bad time to leave, but then it would always be a bad time. Only these new killings and a special request to stay kept him in Vegas now.

He knew he had created confusion with his quiet announcement; most would believe it was disenchantment with his job, the loss of Warrick Brown, a symptom of middle-life doldrums that caused his retirement. But more than his job seemed trivial and unsatisfactory. Lying sleepless, wandering around in restless pursuit of contentment, he had realized that all of it—his job, his house, even his dog—none of it mattered. What, or who, mattered was in Costa Rica, alone, seeking her own adventure, living without him.

The thought of Sara caused him to smile. A breeze stirred warm and gentle across his skin. Sara. He was suddenly suffused with happiness that moved along his veins in a gentle effervescence. Just the thought of her gave him a clear indication that life could be good. He folded his ticket confirmation and reached for a piece of fruit…

_Fade to black then brightness, a very lush green, and we know The Ending of this story occurs in a rainforest in Costa Rica. Grissom gets to see his Glasswings...oh, and he finds happiness...The End!_

_A/N: Thank you! We love hearing your comments!_


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